


Pisces

by spookyleo



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Disabled Character, Crying, Deaf Clint Barton, M/M, Minor Kate Bishop/America Chavez, One Night Stands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Rimming, well. theres a bit of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-06 19:53:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18395240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyleo/pseuds/spookyleo
Summary: Clint had nodded, taken a sip of coffee. Pulled a face.“You’re such a Pisces, god.”He thought what was really at the centre of all this was his abandonment issues. He hadn’t had the best of childhoods, clearly, and he thought maybe that was the reason for his fucked-up sense of attachment. He tried not to dwell on it, but –“I bet you cry when you’re having sex, too,” Kate was grinning, now, and Clint frowned. Mainly, because, yeah, she was right.





	Pisces

**Author's Note:**

> So basically. I was reading Sex Criminals (great book, by the way) and Matt Fraction was answering letters/questions at the back of the issue, as per. Someone asked what Clint was like in bed, because as you may know, a lot of people's fan canon of Clint is Fraction's version. Anyway, Fraction said that Clint's a crier.  
> He also said that folks on tumblr would have a field day with this idea, and boy if I had to prove him right!

Clint had never really been that good with relationships, and the two failed marriages went to show for it.

He always fell, hard and fast, in love, relentless, like he’d never loved anyone before. Kate always told him it was because of his star sign.

“Pisces are known for this kind of shit,” she had told him one day, after he had revealed his plan to confess his undying love to the guy who’d been hitting him up on Grindr at that time. Kate swung her legs against the side of the counter she was perched on. “Really, Clint. He just wants sex. Block him.”

Clint had nodded, taken a sip of coffee. Pulled a face.

“You’re such a Pisces, god.”

He thought what was really at the centre of all this was his abandonment issues. He hadn’t had the best of childhoods, clearly, and he thought maybe that was the reason for his fucked-up sense of attachment. He tried not to dwell on it, but –

“I bet you cry when you’re having sex, too,” Kate was grinning, now, and Clint frowned. Mainly, because, yeah, she was right.

So, anyway, since then, Clint had tried to rid himself of the “head over heels in two minutes” reputation and, for once, was trying out one-night stands.

They weren’t easy, at first. Clint found himself being too picky, not realising this was one of the things that led to him caring so goddamn much about people he really shouldn’t. After the first time – a wonderful muscular woman named Sophie who’d pegged him so hard he’d felt like he needed a cigarette despite never having smoked in his life - his chest hurt for a few days, and that’s what made him realise he needed to stop giving a fucking damn.

“I’m gonna fuck the first consenting attractive person in this bar tonight,” He announced to Kate, smiling at the doorman when they entered. She chuckled, eyes scanning over the bustling dance floor and bar.

Kate raised an eyebrow. “Just make sure you’re consenting, too.”

The first attractive person Clint came across, of course, managed to be one of the most attractive people he’d seen in his life.

“What about him?” Kate had pointed with her beer bottle, and Clint had half expected her to be joking, but when he turned his head, his own beer nearly spilled out of his mouth.

It wasn’t exactly like it is in rom coms, where time slows down, and the protagonist's jaw hits the floor. Nothing like it, in fact. The guy Clint laid eyes on was dressed in red, sat at a table with a woman and another dude. Clint couldn’t read their lips in the dim light, but he could tell from their body language that they were all there as friends. The guy was laughing at something, a glint in light coloured eyes. Clint would have to take a closer look to figure out what shade they were. As the guy laughed, he took a harder grip on the glass of gold liquid he held, and Clint watched as his biceps bulged ever further in the tight red shirt he wore. Thick, dark stubble dabbled across his – irritatingly attractive – jaw, and as Clint’s eyes flashed back to the guy's muscles, he noticed that the arm not holding the drink was prosthetic.

God, he was perfect.

Clint coughed, trying not to choke.

“Yeah, him. Kate.”

Kate was trying to stop herself from laughing so hard she fell off the barstool.

“Kate, stop laughing. How do I get his attention?”

Kate was still grinning. “Buy him a drink like any normal person would,”

“But what if he doesn’t drink?”

“Clint, he’s drinking right now.”

“You make a good point.” Clint paused. “What do I get him?”

Kate shrugged, a look of desperation floundering onto her face. “Ask the bartender to get another of what he’s having, or something.”

“Or something?” Clint raised an eyebrow, pulled his face into an expression of disarray. “What do I do, Kate?” He flung his head and shoulders down on the bar in front of him with a dramatic eye roll and flick of hands. Kate poked him with a cocktail stick. He poked his head out from his arms, the corners of his mouth turning up.

The bartender cleared her throat. Kate and Clint looked up.

“Sorry to bother you, _Chico_ , but that guy in red over there just offered to buy you a drink.”

“He did?” Kate and Clint cast their gaze towards the guy’s table. The guy smiled over at them.

Clint maintained eye contact, giving an awkward little smile and wave, not noticing the way the bartender was beginning to eye up Kate.

“Give the man another beer,” Kate supplied for him when Clint didn’t say anything further, and the bartender grinned and set a bottle on the bar.

Kate pulled Clint’s shoulder to bring his attention to her, where she wiped a crumb off his shirt and handed him the beer.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” she smiled, and sent Clint off, turning back to the wonderful young woman behind the bar.

It didn’t take long for Clint and the mysterious gorgeous guy with the prosthetic arm to be deep in conversation. It turned out he did have a name, after all, and it was James – but his friend, Sam, explained that everyone called him Bucky.

“Bucky, huh?” Clint had taken a sip of his beer at that point and leaned backward. He was trying not to think about the way the guy had one hand on Clint’s thigh, square and flesh and rough. Part of him was wondering what the prosthetic hand would feel like, and to what extent Bucky could control the tension of the hand, and whether it ever hurt. Did he take it off at the end of the day with relief? Clint could hear the domesticity in his thoughts and shook his head after his sip of beer.

Clint discovered that the other friend, the woman, was called Peggy, and he turned to the guys.

“Does she- “

“Yeah, she does,” Sam grinned.

Bucky excused himself and Clint not long afterward, and they left the bar after Clint checked in with Kate, who was still deep in conversation with the bartender. Clint told her to text him when she got home safe, and Kate told him to do the same, casting a soft, knowing glance at Bucky.

“Look after him, will you? He’s incapable of most things.”

Bucky nodded, grinned. “Yes, Ma’am.”

 

Clint tried not to let the layout of Bucky’s apartment in. That was dangerous territory, and he knew it. If he gave his mind eye’s version of Bucky a context, a place to belong, he knew it wouldn’t be too long until he tried to imagine himself there.

However, Bucky’s apartment wasn’t that homely, and Clint wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

“It’s not much, I know,” Bucky excused as he unlocked the door to his apartment. The number on the door was set on a red star, the paint peeling slightly. “Before I lived in Manhattan I was in the army,”

Clint gazed at him at that, questions in his eyes. They pushed their way inside. Bucky chuckled a little.

“You ever serve?”

The inside of Bucky’s apartment was pretty bleak. There was a couch, sagging and grey when it surely ought to be green, and maroon cushions atop. A television, a magazine cupboard that seemed to be serving as a bookcase, a kitchenette with a half-sized fridge and clean pots on the drying rack next to the sink.

Oddly, it reminded Clint more of his own place.

“I’ve done a lot of things,” Clint said eventually. “But I’ve never been a soldier,”

He knew things though. For a socialist, a surprising amount of his friends had served the US – or, admittedly, served for Russia, but he wasn’t supposed to talk about that.

He knew how difficult it could be to rehabilitate oneself after serving. He knew how little support was given to veterans, and he knew how guilt could seep in after people who didn’t know what they had been fighting for found out.

He understood Bucky’s apartment, and realised that this was a bad thing, because he felt his heart try to reach out and grab Bucky, felt his emotions rile up his throat until he pushed it out into a sorrowful smile. He ought to turn away from this encounter, turn back, because that admission had finally hit, and Clint was feeling empathy for this man, and very suddenly, Bucky wasn’t a stranger anymore, wasn’t mysterious anymore, wasn’t anonymous anymore.

But Clint didn’t turn away.

Instead, he moved closer.

He’d been in Bucky’s space the whole way home, hands in pockets and elbows brushing against one another’s, but now he stepped in in a whole different way. He was just a tiny bit shorter than Bucky, maybe a quarter of an inch, and he felt it as he turned to face the man. The apartment was dully lit, but he saw Bucky’s eyes and finally clocked on to what colour they were - a stormy, swirling, transfixed grey that felt like peace and discomfort all at once.

Bucky raised his eyebrows.

“May I kiss you, Mr. Barton, or are you busy there?”

Clint grinned, and their lips met.

He wasn’t exactly as Clint had expected; not as rough as other one-night stands, but with passion, and when Clint finally moved away from the kiss Bucky seemed to follow him with his gaze.

“Bedroom?” Clint suggested, and Bucky nodded, pointed towards a door near the couch.

They had a brief discussion, of course, about what the other liked and what the other wanted. It was out of respect, and care, and Clint tried not to read into the soft look in Bucky’s eyes when Clint joked about his issues being the reason behind one or two of the things he was into.

But that was over, and now Clint straddled Bucky’s lap, stripped to boxers and a t-shirt already. Bucky was in a similar state, his shirt removed and his jeans unbuttoned.

Bucky’s hands moved possessively over Clint’s thighs as the two made out, the cooler feel of the prosthetic hand making the hairs on Clint's leg stand up. Bucky’s hands moved to his hips with no hesitation, and Clint felt himself involuntarily grind down on the rough denim of Bucky’s jeans, a noise slipping from his mouth as Bucky pulled out of the kiss with a smile. Clint was only half hard, but he knew he was whiny, and now Bucky knew it too.

And now that Bucky knew it too, it looked like he was trying to exploit it as much as possible. He lifted Clint’s t-shirt up over his hips and waist, over his chest, and attached his mouth to Clint’s body, relying on Clint to take the shirt fully off as he mouthed over Clint’s nipples. Clint hardly managed, too full of the need to cling to Bucky, but he got it off (almost getting it stuck on his hearing aid), forgotten to lay rest on Bucky’s floor. Almost involuntarily, he then leaned into Bucky’s mouth as the man sucked and nipped his way over Clint’s torso, leaving red marks behind.

“You’re beautiful, by the way,” Bucky paused to say, Clint’s breath catching in his throat as moisture on his skin turned cool in the room temperature apartment.

Clint decided against replying, instead turning his attention to Bucky’s body, to the rounded, firm muscles of his chest and arms, to the tattoo under his ribcage, to the scar spreading down his right shoulder. This man really was a work of art. Clint moved in to kiss Bucky again, one hand on the rough stubble of his jaw, the other in the short, spiky mess of his hair.

Bucky moved his hands back to Clint’s hips, moving to his ass, running over the fabric and the warm skin beneath. Bucky’s prosthetic hand didn’t grip to the contours of flesh the same way his other hand did, and Clint supposed he had got his answer from earlier. But his brain threw that out the window. That didn’t matter right now. What mattered was the curl of heat that was building up in his stomach, the way that his stomach felt like it had dropped through his body when Bucky looked at him from under thick eyelashes, two fingers under the waistband of his boxers, a silent question in his swirling eyes.

Clint nodded, and Bucky could only oblige, pulling the man’s boxers over soft yet powerful thighs. Clint sighed as the cool air of the room hit his hips, and Bucky pulled him in a little closer in an effort to keep him warm. Clint helped shake the boxers from his legs, then frowned.

“This isn’t fair,” Clint said, as he knelt there naked but for (purple, mismatched) socks whilst Bucky remained in jeans.

Bucky grinned, leant in for a small kiss, then pushed Clint out of his lap. He stood, and Clint rolled back, stretched out, pale skin against Bucky’s bed, his blue eyes twinkling, set on the other man.

“Alright,” Bucky said, and worked his jeans down his legs. It was less of a show than Clint had expected, but it got the job done, and Bucky dug in the drawer of the table beside his bed for a moment, producing condoms and lube and tossing them so they just hit Clint’s knee.

Clint watched as Bucky rejoined him on the bed, kneeling and pulling at his own briefs slowly, almost mockingly. Clint grinned, a giggle escaping his mouth, and swivelled his legs so he knelt flush to Bucky’s torso, one hand on the man’s hips and the other in the back of his hair again. They both grinned as their lips met.

 

Bucky had decided on the need to get his mouth on every part of Clint, and that was all encompassing. The lube still lay somewhere beside their bodies as Bucky licked along the insides of Clint’s thighs, listening to the sounds it produced. He wondered – not for the first time that night - if Clint’s hearing accurately represented those noises, or if the man was unaware of his own music. Regardless, he kept making it.

Clint’s legs drew up of their own accord as Bucky got closer to the man’s perineum, and god that was good. Bucky nipped at the skin a little, testing, listening as the noises Clint made got deeper for a second. He took that as a good thing, noting how Clint’s cock - flushed pink and tight against his stomach, leaking over soft blonde hairs – twitched again. He hadn’t laid a finger on Clint’s cock so far, hadn’t even nudged his balls, and as Bucky cast his gaze over the man’s flustered body, he could tell. Without even being told to, Clint had his hands tightly in the sheets around his own head, making sure to not touch himself. He had his eyes downcast at Bucky, and saw the soft look behind his eyes as Bucky drank the sight of him in.

Clint felt very vulnerable all of a sudden, a gazelle in a lion’s den, but nevertheless, he felt cared about. It was a strange feeling, because usually, when Clint found himself caring about someone, it wasn’t reciprocated.

Bucky got back to work. He moved his tongue over Clint’s hole, revelling in the taste of the man’s skin as he slicked the area, pushed his tongue inside, and if Clint had been whining before, he was full on moaning now. Eyes rolling back, face almost growing pale. Bucky only hoped his neighbours enjoyed the sound as much as he did.

“Please,” Clint stuttered out, and Bucky felt electric shoot up his spine.

“…Yeah,” was all he could say, and he kissed a few reddened patches on the man’s torso before he reached for the lube.

Clint shivered under his touch as Bucky breezed two slicked fingers over Clint’s stomach, warm and flushed pink. Bucky liked that Clint’s blush spread that far, and that answered the question that he had been thinking when he first saw the pretty blonde.

“Can I touch..?” Bucky’s brows drew together as his hand approached Clint’s cock, untouched and achingly hard. His dick itself was pretty, cut and bent slightly to the left, a beautiful colour in the dim light of Bucky’s bedroom. Bucky supposed that suited the rest of Clint’s aesthetic, the subtle perfection of every feature, the freckles in odd places across a pale canvas of lean muscle and soft skin. His face, right now, eyes closed, eyelashes dusting blushed cheeks, mouth open – Bucky thought it was one of the most wonderful things he’d seen in quite a while.

Clint nodded, and Bucky drew a few slow strokes from the man, drawing a sound from his throat more obscene than any of the others made that evening – a whine that turned to a groan.Bucky felt like fire was lapping at his skin, burning at his stomach as he watched Clint try his best to keep his hips from rising from the mattress, the sound catching in his throat as he did.

“Shh,” Bucky breathed, one hand going to his own cock to try to stop himself from going lightheaded. “I’m here. It’s okay,”

He didn’t know why he was comforting the man, but Clint’s eyes rolled open as he did, nodding, the look behind them intense, soft, caring. Bucky felt like a pressure had been taken of his shoulders suddenly, and felt an immense sense of belonging.

 

Clint looked into Bucky’s eyes and felt the same thing.

Bucky’s fingers made their way down, more lube added as he ran one over Clint’s hole, leaning up to kiss the man’s jaw as it pulled yet another noise from him.

Clint opened his mouth again, trying to say something, but Bucky pushed one finger inside the other man and Clint’s words were reduced to sighs, sharp exhales, and Bucky continued to press kisses and nips into the man’s jaw and soft skinned neck.

“Good,” Bucky managed to murmur a single word, his breath getting caught in his throat. “Good boy.”

Clint moaned at that again, and fuck, wasn’t that perfect. Bucky pushed a second finger inside the man, working it slickly in and out, stretching him out a little. It seemed that Clint had been prepared somewhat, or that he’d fucked himself at some point earlier in the day, because the ring of muscle was already a little loose.

“You alright there?” Bucky asked, a low mumble that pushed its way through his teeth, and Clint wasn’t sure how to answer. He was falling apart in all the best ways, and for a second he wondered if it was possible to forget how to think.

He nodded. “So good,” and it came out as a grunt that turned into a moan, because Clint wasn’t sure how to do anything else in that moment.

Bucky pushed a third finger in and directed his movements so that his fingers hit Clint’s prostate, and Clint’s question was answered.

“I need you. Now. Please.” Somehow, in the dimension of losing one’s mind, Clint had regained his voice. His every muscle was tensed, and after a quick thought, he decided he’d do anything for Bucky to be inside him right at that moment, fill him up and pull him to his chest. Anything.

Bucky drew a few more slackening strokes, then moved his fingers away, and for a second Clint felt emptier from his head to his toes than he ever had in his life. He found the strength to get to his knees, push Bucky down, straddle the man like he had when they had first entered this dumb little bedroom of Bucky’s.

And Bucky let him, one hand moving to Clint’s waist to steady him, the other still lingering on his own cock.

“Condom,” Bucky murmured, and Clint scrabbled to find where one had fallen within the bedsheets, emerging quickly and victoriously and pulling it open to pull over Bucky.

And then he was on him, because Clint couldn’t bear it anymore, settling down around him with nothing more than Bucky’s hands on his waist for guidance and hushed words of encouragement.

The electricity that danced through their systems as this happened was ecstatic. Clint forgot how to breathe for a second. He hadn’t thought he could get more turned on. He’d say he felt like a lightbulb that only got brighter, but he figured that that was a really bad analogy.

Bucky couldn’t believe all this, even seeing it with his own eyes. He watched Clint’s head fall back, then forward, pushing into Bucky’s shoulder as they began to move. Bucky held the man’s waist – crazily small compared to the muscular shoulders and soft thighs – and kissed Clint sweetly wherever he could, tasting sweat from his hair as he did so.

They both had hips strong enough to guide the other, but Clint’s tense muscles showed no signs of moving, so Bucky did the work as they continued. Each roll between the two of them was radiant, like the core that danced within each of them and flickered up their skin was consuming them, transporting them, taking them to a place where only they existed and it was just sweat and skin and white light.

And Clint started to cry.

Clint was crying because he always did. Kate has been right. But it was never like this. He felt like magic, and the hot tears that rolled down his face between his moans felt like stardust. He pressed his face to Bucky’s shoulder, the sweat, the scarring, the warming plastic of the prosthetic, and sobbed.

“God, Clint,” Bucky had stopped, and something inside Clint wanted to cry even harder, scream and beg so he wouldn’t stop.

“You’re crying, darling,” He said it choked up, like Clint hadn’t noticed, like Bucky was about to start crying too. Clint wasn’t sure if he was emotionally prepared for that.

“Yeah,” Clint looked up, his eyes meeting Bucky’s. He felt bad, suddenly, because there was such genuine emotion in the other man’s eyes that he didn’t know if crying was worth seeing Bucky cry too.

“It’s okay. I do this a lot. My friend Kate says it’s because i’m a Pisces,” Clint didn’t bother trying to wipe away his tears, but he smiled for Bucky, like it would make his whole life okay.

“Please – keep going.”

Bucky looked at him for a second, cocked his head, and continued.

Clint’s orgasm was one of the best of his life, if not the best. He fell back into being unable to think as it ripped through him, his arms wrapped so tightly around Bucky he worried about strangulating the guy. His scream of Bucky’s name was more than enough to make the neighbours hate him, and as Bucky followed shortly after, he was sure Bucky’s rough cry would be embedded in his – and those in the apartments surrounding – minds for a long time.

“Are you sure you’re alright? That was all okay?” Bucky asked afterwards, licking cooling come from Clint’s now sensitive stomach. He giggled as Bucky did so.

“I’m certain. I appreciate the concern – I do! But I promise. It showed you were doing a good job,” Clint rubbed one hand through Bucky’s messed up hair.  

“Alright then.”

Bucky swallowed, and moved to sit on the edge of the bed as he removed his prosthetic for the night. Clint watched, realisation sinking in, and when Bucky turned out the light and lay down next to Clint, pulling him close, face to face, Clint let him.

He waited until Bucky was asleep to get up and leave.

**Author's Note:**

> By the way, according to the internet, Clint is a Scorpio/Sagittarius. But fuck that, because I know astrology and I'm gay and I can do what I want. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr! I'm @//avengers4 over there.


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